Stuart MacBride - Dying Light

‘Colin,’ said Logan in a low, friendly voice. ‘Trust me on this; you want to have a wee chat with us. And it’ll be much nicer if we have it over an early lunch in the nearest pub than down at the station. OK?’

Miller looked from Logan to the article flickering away on his screen — something about a bake sale in Stonehaven, if Logan wasn’t mistaken — before hammering Ctrl-Alt-Delete, locking his computer. ‘Come on then.’ Miller stood and grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair. ‘You bastards is buyin’.’

They didn’t go into the nearest pub — according to Miller the place would be hoachin’ with nosey-bastard journalists and if there was any chance of a story coming out of this, he wasn’t going to share it with anyone — so instead he made Logan drive them into the centre of town, dumping the car back at Force HQ so they could make the two-minute walk to the Moonfish Café on Correction Wynd. On the other side of the narrow, sunken alley a huge granite wall, at least twenty-foot tall, held back the dirt and graves of the ‘Dead Centre’ — St Nicholas Kirk — the sky an icy blue, trapped between the looming church spire and the twisted willows. They were halfway through ordering when Steel jiggled about in her seat, then dragged out her mobile phone. ‘Got it on vibrate,’ she said with a wink. ‘Hello? What? No, I’m in a restaurant... Yes... Susan! No, that’s not... Look I know you’re upset... but...’ Swearing she stood, grabbed her jacket off the back of the chair and marched outside. ‘Susan, it’s not like that...’

‘So,’ said Logan as the inspector stomped back and forth on the other side of the restaurant’s front window — a freshly lit cigarette leaving wild smoke trails in the wake of her gesticulating hand, ‘Isobel feeling any better?’

The reporter looked alarmed. ‘Better?’

‘Doc Fraser said she’d been sick.’

‘Oh, right. Aye...’ Shrug. ‘Summer cold or somethin’, no’ sleepin’ much, you know?’ An awkward silence settled onto the table, followed by complimentary slices of freshly baked bread. They helped themselves, making small talk about Aberdeen’s chances in the coming match with Celtic, waiting for the inspector to finish what looked like a very loud argument.

Eventually the door banged open and Steel marched in, threw herself into her chair and scowled at the specials board.

‘So whit’s this all about?’ asked Miller as they waited for their sea bass in crayfish butter.

‘You know fine what it’s about,’ said Steel, turning her scowl on him instead. ‘You had breakfast with some wee shite-bag from Edinburgh last week. I want to know who he is. And I want to know right bloody now!’

Miller raised an eyebrow and took a contemplative sip of his Sauvignon Blanc, eyeing up DI Steel over the top of his glass, taking in the saggy neck, pointed features, wrinkles, escaped-loony hair, and nicotine-stained teeth. ‘Jesus, Laz,’ he said at last, ‘I think your mum’s coming on to me.’

Logan tried not to smile. ‘We think your “corporate investment facilitator” assaulted someone in hospital yesterday, maybe even forced him to accept drugs for resale.’

Miller groaned and took another swig of his wine, draining half the glass. ‘I don’t know anythin’, OK?’ He pushed his chair out and stood. ‘I’ll get a taxi back tae the paper—’

Logan grabbed his arm. ‘Look, we’re not going to involve you, OK? We just need a bit of info. Far as anyone else is concerned, you didn’t tell us anything.’

‘Aye, damn right I didn’t.’ The reporter cast a significant glance at DI Steel. ‘And I’m not goin’ tae either.’

The inspector scowled. ‘Listen up, you soap-dodging Weegie bastard: if you like I can drag you into the station and force you to make a statement. Understand?’

‘Oh aye? And how the hell do you think you’re goin’ tae do that, Grandma? I don’t have to tell you shite if I don’t want to. You want to go get a court order, you get off your wrinkly, stinky old arse and get one.’

Steel was up on her feet, leaning over the table, teeth bared. ‘Who the fuck do you think you are?’

‘Me?’ Miller smacked himself in the chest with a fist. ‘I’m the free-fuckin’-press, that’s who I am. Want to see your haggard old face splashed all over the paper? I’ll screw your career over in a fuckin’ heartbeat!’

That was all Logan needed — if Steel got pilloried in the P&J, Napier’s sage-and-onion threat would stuff Logan out of a job. ‘Inspector,’ he said, placing a hand over her trembling, tobacco-yellowed fist. ‘Why don’t you leave me to speak to Mr Miller? I’m sure you’ve got much more important—’ But Colin Miller wasn’t hanging around. He grabbed his coat off the stand and barged out of the restaurant, slamming the door behind him, rattling the glass.

Steel stared after him. ‘If you need me,’ she said, ‘I’ll be back at the ranch.’ And she too was gone. Logan let his head sink forward until it was resting on the tabletop, the beginnings of a headache sidling up behind his eyes. The woman was a nightmare: all they needed to do was sit down and have a quiet word with the reporter, sound him out, get a name and take it from there. Instead of which, she goes out of her way to piss him off.

‘Er... excuse me?’

Logan peeled an eye open to see a blue apron hovering at his shoulder. Further up there was a pretty brunette attached to it, balancing three large plates. She smiled uncertainly down at him. ‘Sea bass?’

Back at Force Headquarters, DI Steel was in deep conversation with the Assistant Chief Constable when Logan pushed through the incident room’s door. He left them to it — not feeling up to polite conversation, having made a good attempt at eating all three portions of fish out of sheer bloody-mindedness. Brooding as he chewed.

‘Jesus, sir: you OK? You look like sh... erm... dreadful.’ DC Rennie was trying to get into the room bearing a tray covered with coffee and chocolate biscuits. Logan didn’t reply, just helped himself to a mug of mid-brown slurry on his way to the desk he was sharing with the admin officer. One side of the desk was covered in orderly stacks of paper and an ancient-looking computer, the other side belonged to Logan; an expanse of bare Formica with a brand-new yellow Post-it note bang slap in the middle. He picked it up, trying to decipher the biro scrawl. It looked like Aopen WULHIR and an address that could have been SANITTFILD DRIVE, or SUNITHFIULD DRIVE. DC Rennie came past with the biscuits, took one look at the note and said, ‘Smithfield Drive? I had a great aunt lived there when I was wee. Nice old lady: loved Coronation Street .’ He offered Logan a Jaffa Cake. ‘Didn’t miss a single episode till they carted her off to the crematorium. They played the theme tune as she went through the curtains.’

Logan stuck the note under the constable’s nose. ‘What about that bit?’ he said, pointing at AOPEN WULHIR.

Rennie squinted. ‘Looks like “Agnes Walker” to me... Oh, is that Skanky Agnes? I did her once: drunk and disorderly down the docks. Puked all over the back of the van, dirty cow.’

That sounded about right. ‘You busy?’ he asked. Rennie shook his head. All he’d done that morning was file paperwork and get the teas in.

They picked out one of the newer CID pool cars, Rennie driving as Logan slumped in the passenger seat. It was warm in the car, the sunlight seeping in through the windshield — a soporific blanket that wrapped itself around him adding to the effects of a large lunch. He drifted off, not quite asleep, but not quite awake either as Rennie drove them through the centre of town, dribbling on and on about how someone from Home and Away was in EastEnders now, playing someone else’s uncle. Logan tuned him out, head lolling against the window, letting the city’s summer streets slide by as Rennie took them past Victoria Park and up Westburn Road. The lights were against them at the junction to the hospital and Logan felt a pang of guilt: he’d still not been to see PC Maitland. Not paid his respects to the nearly dead... Red, amber, green and they were on their way again, leaving the hospital behind.